


The (G)Hosts of Satellite's Past

by legendtripper



Category: Mystery Science Theater 3000
Genre: Bastard Children I Love Them, But in a Fun and Lovable Way, Canon Compliant, Crow and Servo are Generally Annoying, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Found Family, Jonah Heston has ADHD, Loneliness, Mentions of Joel and Mike but They're Not Actually Characters, Mystery Science Theater 3000: The Return Era, Rated Teen for Some Mild Uses of the Fuck Word, Slice of Life, Specifically RSD, They're a family your honor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-24
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-15 10:35:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29682672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/legendtripper/pseuds/legendtripper
Summary: Legacies are a tricky thing to maintain. Even harder is making them disappear.OR: Jonah has some complicated feelings about the hosts who came before him.
Relationships: Cambot & Gypsy & Jonah Heston & Crow T. Robot & Tom Servo, Jonah Heston & Crow T. Robot & Tom Servo
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	The (G)Hosts of Satellite's Past

**Author's Note:**

> A great many thanks to [nicodemons](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nicodemons) for betaing this and to [ghosthuntergay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghosthuntergay) for being my sounding board and general Yeller of Encouragement during this process. This is my first MST3K fic (well, published one, anyway), so I hope everything sounds in character!
> 
> Hope y'all enjoy!

Jonah Heston is the first human resident of the Satellite of Love (technically the third, in the broadest sense of continuity, but first if you count the fact that the original ship crashed and burned in a big ol’ fireball somewhere in middle America after the second experiment ended and now exists purely as a crater a mile wide and a twisted mess of melted scrap metal), but some days, it really doesn’t feel like it.

“Up and at ‘em, Heston, the pseudo-Mads’ll be calling any second now,” Servo calls from outside his cabin, Crow banging on the door to ensure he’s actually awake.

“‘M coming,” Jonah mumbles, tossing the thin sheets—sweat-stained, _again_ , he has so much laundry to do—off himself. The nightmares have been getting worse lately, he thinks, distorted images of space, the ground hurtling towards him, the sound of liquid bubbling until it fills his ears, his lungs, drowning out his cries for help that die in the vacuum of space. His eyes burn from the lack of sleep, and he scrubs at them with the back of his hand before attempting to sit up to begrudgingly greet the day.

Keeping with tradition, he hits his head on the ceiling.

“ _Fucking_ hell.”

“Language!” Crow barks from outside, and Jonah groans. Joel’s stupid anti-swearing rules are all well and good for the ‘bots’ sakes but sometimes it takes every ounce of Jonah’s willpower not to unleash every awful word he knows for ten minutes straight in front of Kinga’s surveillance cameras.

He settles on flipping the bird to no one in particular for the time being.

“Couldn’t they have at least made the bunks a little roomier?”

“Well, Kinga said she modeled the design off SOL prime for ‘authenticity—’” Crow’s air quotes are palpable, even through the steel door, “and Joel was a lot shorter than you, so… Maybe it’s your fault for being such a giant, ever think about that?”

“You guys are the worst.”

“Oh, we know,” Servo says smugly. “See you in the galley? I’m starving.”

“Servo, there’s cereal in the cupboards, get it yourself.”

“You mean the stale Sugar Crisp from thirty years ago?”

Jonah gags, recalling the distinctly unpleasant texture of long discontinued cereals he’s positive Kinga must’ve sourced from some weirdo on Ebay. “Oh god, don’t remind me.”

“You know,” Crow muses, “Joel used to make us RAM chip pancakes every morning, why don’t _you_ do that?”

“ _Because I’m not Joel_ , okay?” Jonah snaps. His head throbs.

Crow huffs. “Sounds like _somebody_ woke up on the wrong side of the crew stacks this morning.”

“ _Fuck. Off._ ”

“Fine! Fine, we’re going. Enjoy yourself, jumpsuit boy.”

Jonah doesn’t even have it in him to argue about what the hell that sentence means.

Sighing heavily, he flops gracelessly back onto the thin mattress that leaves his back knotted and cramped more often than not and rubs his temples with his knuckles.

He’s the first _official_ resident of the Satellite of Love, sure, but really, his impact barely registers compared to the legacies left by the previous hosts.

It feels like Jonah’s being crowded out of his own home, claustrophobic and cramped no matter where he goes. Day in and day out, his frustrations grow. Why had Joel designed the ‘bots with metabolic pathways? Why had Mike encouraged their infuriating theatricality? Why did this happen to _him_ of all people? A dozen unanswered questions destined to remain so flit through his mind and dissipate in an instant.

If Jonah were to ever meet his predecessors in person, he’s not entirely sure what he’d do. While his better nature suggests friendship, comfort, maybe even family, a darker instinct he’s become more familiar with in recent months bubbles forth with the overpowering urge to strangle the both of them, because no matter how hard he fights to make his mark, he can’t escape what they’ve left behind.

As much as he tries not to think about it, to let it get to him, _everything_ on the ship is _Joel this_ and _Mike that_ and he knows it’s only natural the ‘bots will miss them men that built them, that _raised_ them, but sometimes the sound of their names feels like it’ll be what finally pushes him over the edge.

It’s not just their names, either. When Kinga said she matched every detail of the original experiment down to the rivets, she _meant_ it. Jonah had been poking around the galley when he found Joel’s name carved into a table, rough splinters filed down to give the appearance of age. (Not his hand. Not his knife.) After a particularly rough meteor shower, boxes and boxes of Mike’s incomprehensible doodles spilled out from where they were stowed under the bed next to his, shaky lines photocopied—not drawn—onto loose computer paper and old-but-not-really star charts. Most days, Jonah can’t shake the feeling the former hosts are watching him, judging him; for what, he’s not sure (Not taking care of the ‘bots. Failing to live up to the precedent they set. Any number of reasons his anxiety can supply at the drop of a hat.), but the ghostly presences of Joel Robinson and Mike Nelson haunt his every move all the same.

Their phantom gazes crawl up his spine like spiders. He resists the temptation to look over his shoulder.

Jonah pulls on his jumpsuit with methodical precision. It’s something he’s gotten used to, after months aboard the SOL. Kinga hadn’t exactly supplied him with anything beyond what he kept in the small suitcase tucked under the pilot’s seat of his old cargo freighter. To be honest, she hadn’t even given him _that_. There was a wallet with an old Polaroid of his mother in it that had never been returned to him. A t-shirt from his college band. A small box of earrings, folded into a pair of wool socks. His drum kit was still aboard too, presumably rotting away in deep storage on Moon 13. Taking a deep breath, he pushes down a pang of an unidentifiable emotion that leaves a bitter taste in his mouth and lets the door of his cabin slide open with a hiss.

Muffled laughter echoes from the galley where the ‘bots are, hopefully, preparing breakfast. Despite his sour mood, a half-smile tugs at the corners of Jonah’s mouth as he sets off through the winding corridors toward the cockpit.

“Morning, Gyps,” he says quietly, affectionately nudging her head with his elbow as he checks the controls. She bumps his shoulder in return.

When Jonah had done his alterations, he’d disconnected Gypsy from the majority of the ship’s minor functions. After the ‘bots had explained how the majority of her computing power was directed toward maintaining the ship rather than herself—keeping her essentially lobotomized—Jonah made the executive decision to sever her connection to the SOL. He was a pilot, it wasn’t anything he couldn’t handle, and it just didn’t make sense to force her to waste her brain power on something as trivial as keeping the ship’s temperature reg in check. On mornings like this, he’s grateful for her company.

And just for something to _do_.

“Good morning, Jonah!” Gypsy chirps, uncoiling herself from her perch near the ceiling. “How are we looking?”

“Well,” Jonah says, adjusting a few knobs on the dashboard, “the ship looks great. Not sure the same can be said about myself.”

Gypsy tilts her head in a gesture Jonah’s come to recognize as sympathy.

“Couldn’t sleep?”

She’s just as accustomed to Jonah’s nightmares as he is. Being hooked into every function of the ship meant she couldn’t _not_ be aware of them. Jonah had brushed her off the first time she asked about his tossing and turning, but her company in the wee hours of the ship’s morning became nothing short of necessary after a while. And, as much as it might’ve pained the Jonah of the Before Times to admit it, it was nice having someone to confide in about this sort of thing.

The chaise lounge and an impromptu therapy session (complete with a notepad and some old prop glasses haphazardly perched in front of Gypsy’s single eye) had been a bit much, but well-meaning, at least.

“Nah,” Jonah agrees. It’s a non-answer, and he knows that, but at least it’s enough to start. “Well, that and Servo and Crow, too, actually.”

Gypsy bobs her head thoughtfully. “I get it. Those little monsters can be a real menace sometimes.”

Letting out an aborted laugh, Jonah spins around in his chair to face her. “You’re tellin’ me.”

“Hey, at least you haven’t had to live with them for thirty years.”

There it is again. That same stab of… jealousy? Resentment? An awful sensation clutches at Jonah’s throat, which he does his best to swallow through.

He exhales. Counts the stars.

“Hey, Gypsy says softly, flashlight eye flickering slightly. “You okay?”

Jonah shrugs. “As much as I _can_ be, given the circumstances.”

“If you’re sure.” She doesn’t sound convinced, but she also doesn’t pry, and dear all the gods he doesn’t believe in if Jonah doesn’t love her—and, by necessary extension, Joel—for that.

Joel. He loves the ‘bots, and therefore, he loves Joel, and he loves Mike.

But he hates Joel. And he hates Mike.

Both of these statements are equally true.

Jonah shakes his head. The clock reads 0647.

It’s too early for this sort of thing.

If any futile hope remained for the Mads going easy on him this week, it’s quickly dashed by the announcement of the next movie: _The Loves of Hercules_. A schlocky Italian retelling of barely-Greek barely-mythology, shoddily dubbed into English. Combined with the wholly inaccurate, aggressively sexualized costuming and the incomprehensibility of the plot as a whole, it’s enough to give any sane person a headache.

Unfortunately for all of them, Jonah’s far from a sane state of mind as of now.

The ‘bots don’t seem to notice anything is wrong, and if they do, they don’t say anything (not that Kinga would let them, if there’s anything she abhors it’s something that might tank their ratings), and as much as it doesn’t make sense, Jonah actually starts to feel better. He loses himself in the riffing and the horrible mechanical hydra and against all logic the ‘bots look less like his enemies and more like his friends. He even lets them wrangle him into a dress two sizes too big and a cheap Daenerys Fucking Targaryen wig for an idiotic little bit in the middle, and yeah he’s pissed they destroyed his ‘bot, but if he’s being honest, it’s not like he expected M. Waverly to last long anyway.

Crow tells him his enthusiasm for costume comedy reminds him of Mike. Jonah reenters the theater with a lightness in his chest (literally, the fake boobs Servo had saddled him with were _dense_ ).

The movie is a shitshow, of course, that’s the basic requirement for every movie broadcast to the satellite, but it’s a special kind of shitshow, reminiscent of _Outlaw_ or any other of the “kingdom in peril” stories C-rate directors seem to love, with an obviously evil advisor and an obnoxious meathead hero needed to save the land from ruin. Torturous to watch, but totally awesome to roast with increasing vindictiveness.

Kinga’s rage at their levity feels all the better.

Apparently, Gypsy’s got something special planned for dinner, so she insists they get, in her words, “all fancified,” and banishes them all to their respective quarters to freshen up (Jonah chooses to ignore the pointed look she shoots in his direction on the last part.).

While Jonah’s not sure which host thought a small eye-level mirror would be a wise addition to an otherwise bare cabin, he’s grateful for it nonetheless. Looking himself over, he briefly contemplates shaving, before quickly banishing the idea to the backburner. He’s tired and no one will mind.

Now, for the tricky part.

Unfortunately for him, most of the “presentable” clothes he owns are Gizmonics jumpsuits—all of which have been relegated to the laundry hamper for a wide variety of reasons—or leftover costume pieces, which basically strip away any remaining style autonomy he’s still desperately clinging to.

Doesn’t leave him a whole lot of options.

Unless…

On a whim, Jonah inspects the closet in the corner, something he’d never really had reason to do, given the fact that Kinga had stolen any personal effects he might’ve been inclined to stow away.

It’s not empty.

Several cardboard boxes labeled in big block letters are stacked nearly floor to ceiling. Most of them seem to be spare tools and mechanical parts, presumably remnants of previous invention exchanges or scrapped ship modifications. Jonah makes a note to trawl through them later (and decidedly does _not_ consider how Kinga knew all of this was here), and slides one out.

The sharpie on the top spells out “SPARE CLOTHES,” the word “spare” written in completely different handwriting (Jonah’s pretty sure it’s Mike’s, he’s seen Joel’s old notes in the lab and this looks nothing like his cramped scrawl) than the word “clothes,” with two thick lines underscoring the whole mess.

Covering his nose with his arm, Jonah brushes the not insubstantial layer of dust off the top, eyes watering, and opens the box.

Bingo.

Piles and piles of clothing, from extra jumpsuits, to casual wear, to old costumes, to a paint-splattered pair of jeans, spill out from where they’d been compressed. Several of the items he knows will be too small for him—thus far, Kinga has accounted for _everything_ , and Joel’s slight stature was thoroughly documented—but after a minute of digging, Jonah comes up with a couple dinner outfits.

First is something practical. A pair of not-Mike’s old jeans and a knitted sweater. He’s almost settled on it as his outfit for the night, but Gypsy’s horror at its simplicity quickly eliminates that option, as well as several others.

Soon enough, all that’s left is the ridiculous choice.

As is the case with most things in his life.

It’s a cocktail dress. A black, shimmering cocktail dress with a scandalously low neckline and a downright offensively long slit up the left leg. The honest-to-god worst part is that it looks like it fits.

Jonah takes a deep, steadying breath.

He laughs.

And he shrugs on the dress, grabbing the same ratty blonde wig from earlier and slapping some lipstick on to complete the effect. The tailored fit actually makes him pause to consider the _horrifying_ idea Kinga picked this out for him specifically, but some part of his mind coughs up an old tape from one of the earlier seasons where this dress had made an appearance, so instead he just rolls his eyes.

It’s nice, in a way, to have something that connects him to the previous hosts, even if he resents them, even if it’s all made up, like some gruesome set in the world’s worst play.

He grabs his jacket off his bed and heads toward the galley, obnoxious shoes clicking against the metal floor and forcing him to duck more often than usual.

The ‘bots explode into whoops and hollers when he makes his grand entrance, Gypsy all but begging him to do a twirl (he does, but he also falls on his ass, so overall, maybe not the wisest move) while Servo and Crow do what friends do what friends do and mock him incessantly. Against his better judgment, lightness from earlier rushing back to his sternum with enough force to make him giddy, Jonah smiles. A big, goofy smile, which the ‘bots eagerly return to the best of their collective abilities. Gypsy actually shapes her tubing into a semblance of a happy face emoticon, which Crown and Servo take as an unspoken invitation to start pitching spare tools through the “mouth,” much to Jonah’s chagrin.

Dinner is delicious.

No surprises there, of course, Gypsy’s always been a fantastic cook, even if it was out of necessity rather than by design. Jonah’s not quite sure how she did it, but Gypsy’s managed to produce a delicious pho with a side of herbed dumplings—Jonah elects to keep the warnings about preparing a liquid dish on a spaceship where frequent turbulence is most definitely a capital-t Thing to himself—and the conversation and the ribbing and the genuine company is almost worth the absolutely shittacular day it’s taken to get to this point.

When the topic drifts to the former hosts, the ghosts of the halls of the ship, Jonah isn’t bitter, for once. Instead, he revels in the fond memories that sound more like insults being slung across the galley like weapons and hastily pulls Crow off the table when he tries to recreate one of Mike’s drunken escapades and even asks questions here and there about Joel’s experiments. The ‘bots are happy. Jonah is happy. He runs his hand across the carving in the tabletop, tracing J-O-E-L with a finger covered in band-aids and grease.

Elsewhere in the ship, the phantoms lurking in the shadows start to lose their shape.

Well, they do until Jonah cracks a joke harkening back to the Satellite prime era about the latest movie and Crow and Servo exchange knowing glances.

“Sounds like _somebody’s_ trying to be the new Mike ‘round these parts,” Servo quips, and the delivery is nothing but friendly teasing, and Jonah _knows_ he doesn’t mean it that way, and it’s honestly insane for something so insignificant to be what gets the better of him, but all the same, the implication sours in Jonah’s mouth.

He drops his spoon into his soup with a clatter.

All at once, the room goes silent. In that silence is an accusation, Jonah can feel it, the blame carried in the dead air that threatens to choke him. Strangely enough, his first instinct is to choke back a laugh. He spends every goddamn day of his life being watched, and the eyes that aren’t even there are what weigh heaviest on his existence? It’s _absurd_.

But absurdity doesn’t stop the tears from burning behind his eyes, threatening to spill over.

“Jonah?” Gypsy murmurs, and damn it all if she doesn’t sound like his mother.

“I’m just gonna…” He gestures over his shoulder. He can’t make himself look her in the eye. He’s just _tired_. “I’m gonna go back to my cabin.”

Crow and Servo make no moves to stop him. Jonah tamps down the disappointment roiling in his gut (or maybe it’s just the pho).

The muffled shouting that echoes from the galley only serves to drive the point home. (And what _is_ the point? That he isn’t wanted? That his very existence throws a wrench in the works? Does it even matter?)

It could be ten minutes, it could be hours later when the paper is slipped through his barely-cracked cabin door. Jonah had been lying on his bunk, staring upward, turning _something_ over in his mind, though he couldn’t pin down what through all the static clogging up his thoughts, and the quiet whoosh of movement startled him so badly he whacked his head on the ceiling.

Again.

“Oh, son of a—” he barks, pressing a palm to his aching forehead, but he trails off before he can finish the sentence, staring at the folded sheet of paper lying just inside the entryway.

His name is scribbled on the outside in a nearly illegible chicken scratch. Frowning, Jonah gingerly swings his legs off the bed, careful to avoid the metal rod that held the privacy curtain that enclosed his bed, and plucks the paper off the floor.

It’s… a letter. Mostly in Crow’s handwriting, though Servo’s unreadable additions are squeezed into the margins as well.

If he’s being honest, the prospect of unfolding it fills him with a deep sense of dread. Whatever the ‘bots have to say can’t be good, if their thoughts throughout the day are anything to go by.

Foolishly, he opens it anyway.

_Jonah—_

_Servo said we should write you this apology letter (technically Gypsy, but Servo’s taking the credit) and he wouldn’t let me weasel out of it when I pointed out that neither of us have properly functioning limbs because he remembered Joel taught me to write which was apparently the worst decision of my life. Responsibility. Who knew?_

_Anyway, Servo just stole my left arm and threatened to take my right one too because he said I wasn’t writing fast enough which proves he definitely doesn’t know how arms work (he says he does, but I don’t believe—_ At this point, this ink doubles back in on itself and reduces the rest of the sentence to a mess of squiggles and jagged line Jonah could never hope to decipher. In spite of himself, he lets out a little huff of amusement. If there’s one thing the ‘bots are, it’s consistent.

_Ignore all of that._

_The point is— we’re sorry._

_You know we’re not super good at all this “emotions” stuff so I hope you won’t get mad at us because we aren’t talking about our feelings and junk. But we are sorry, really._

_Obviously, we miss Joel and we miss Mike, we’re not gonna lie about that part just to make you feel better. But we also ~~tolerate you sometimes~~ like you, as much as you suck, just like, ~~intrinsicly~~ ~~intrin~~ in general. You’re funny most of the time and pretty cool (don’t get a big head about it) and you cared for us even though you didn’t have to and you can read all of Joel’s old RAM chip recipes and make them we ask, which is clearly the most important part._

_We miss our friends. But we also have you. And yeah, you’re not Joel, and you’re not Mike, and thank god or Patrick Swayze or whoever that you’re not Kinga or Dr. F or one of them, but that doesn’t matter. You’re Jonah._

_Don’t forget it, dingus._

_Your best ‘bots, Crow T. Robot and Tom Servo_

Jonah can hardly say he’s surprised when a tear splatters against the paper. Horrible, lovable gremlins. Gonna be the death of him someday.

Sniffing, Jonah wipes his nose with the sleeve of his jacket, before quickly stripping it off and tossing it on the ever-growing laundry pile.

Something falls against his cabin door, followed by furious hushed cursing. Jonah does his best to stifle an incredibly undignified giggle. Not that “dignified” is really a look he can achieve right now, what with the cocktail dress and the smudged mascara and the wig half falling off his head, but it’s the thought that counts.

“Come in,” Jonah calls out, folding the letter in his lap. “Don’t hurt yourselves.”

The door slides open, allowing the tangle of Crow and Servo to come tumbling in about as gracelessly as they could have possibly managed. While the ‘bots sort out whose limbs are whose and where Servo’s dome has gone (under Jonah’s bed), Jonah scoots forward on his mattress, schooling his expression into something he hopes looks suitably parental.

“You two wanna tell me why you were lurking outside my room?”

“We weren’t lurking!” Servo exclaims at the same time Crow grumbles, “You’re not my real dad.”

“Uh-huh.” Jonah raises an eyebrow. “Take it again?”

“Well,” hastily righting himself, Servo rotates his hover skirt slightly, almost like he’s dusting himself off, “ _Crow_ here was worried about how you’d take such an _effusive_ display of emotion—”

Crow’s beak snaps open in protest. “Was not!”

“—so _I_ humbly suggested we talk to you afterward, to soothe his delicate nerves—”

“But then we didn’t know how long it be ‘til you were done!”

“—then _you_ had to be _literate_ and read faster than we anticipated, so we didn’t have time to leave and come back like we originally planned.”

“And now here we are!”

Jonah can feel a headache blossoming behind his eyes as he struggles to follow their conversation. Cliché as it is, he pinches the bridge of his nose.

“I’m— I’m not even gonna pretend to understand you guys.”

“Probably for the best,” Crow agrees.

A terse silence stretches between the three of them, only broken by the thrumming of the pipes. Quick glances are exchanged with a frightening intensity between the two ‘bots in the room. Jonah folds his hands in his lap.

“Welp,” Crow eventually says, accompanied by Servo’s overly dramatic sigh, “I guess we’ll be on our way, then. Um. Goodnight?”

“Wait.”

The ‘bots pause, partway out the automatic door Jonah has half a mind to worry might close on them. Try as he might, the words Jonah intended to say get stuck in his throat.

Servo tilts his body in an unmistakable invitation to speak.

“Guys… I’m gonna keep this short and sweet because you two have the attention spans of goldfish—and I say that as kindly as I can—” Jonah cuts Servo’s objections off with a raised finger, “but don’t think I mean what I say any less.” Breathe in. Out.

“You guys, and Gypsy, and Cambot too… you—” He chokes down a nervous laugh. “I’m sorry, Servo you look— really weird right now, do you want me to get your head for you?”

Servo’s arm flailing is the picture of (adorable) righteous fury. “Shut it, wise guy, how’d _you_ like it if you lost your head?”

“Hey— Hey Servo,” Crow says, practically vibrating with glee, “remember when you asked Joel to give you a haircut—”

“Shut _up_ , Crow.”

“—and your head was just a little stump for, like, two weeks—”

The rest of Crow’s anecdote is cut short by Servo tackling him to the ground and Jonah making a mental note to dig through the early show files for blackmail material.

Jonah lets them fight while he scrabbles under the cot for Servo’s dome, only turning around once to yell at Crow for making an off-color comment about looking up his skirt. Only when he emerges with Servo’s head does the scuffle stop, and that’s mostly due to the fact that Crow seems intent on starting a game of keep away, which Jonah has no intention to let come to pass.

Holding the head close to his chest, Jonah raises a disappointed eyebrow that, by some miracle, seems to put the ‘bots back in line (he wonders if they’re deliberately trying to be nicer to him, what with the apology letter and all), and gingerly screws the dome back on after Servo’s finished shouting. Servo wiggles appreciatively.

But the levity must pass, and Jonah settles back onto his bed, drawing his knees up to his chest and looking the ‘bots dead in the artificial eyes, or where their eyes would be.

“I…” _God_ , it should not be this hard. “You guys mean a lot to me. You really do. And… I’m sorry I got mad at you earlier, you didn’t deserve to have to deal with _my_ personal biz, y’know?” Crow nods, and Jonah can’t help but smile a little in response. “Listen, I _know_ it’s dumb, but… sometimes my brain likes to lie to me and tell me stupid shit and most of the time I know how to handle it, but sometimes I _don’t_ and whenever that happens I always end up doing something I regret. Like yelling at you two.” Tentatively reaching forward, Jonah takes Servo and Crow’s hands in his. Surprisingly, they don’t pull away.

“I don’t hate Joel or Mike, not really, and I _definitely_ don’t hate you, I’m just— This whole experiment is _super_ fucked up, not that you needed me to tell you that, and it _gets_ to me occasionally. Which is… exactly what Kinga wants, huh,” he muses. “Most of the time I’m fine but some days it just feels like Mike and Joel are _all_ you guys care about and I feel—” _You’re being irrational, they don’t care about your idiot brain_ , “left behind. Which obviously isn’t _true_ , but it’s hard to tell the difference sometimes. Anyway, I’m not trying to excuse my actions or anything, I just want you guys to know that I really do care about you, even when it might seem like I don’t.” Jonah picks at a band-aid on his finger.

“You mentioned me looking after you when I didn’t have to? Same goes for you guys, too. You were under _no_ obligation to be nice to me, but then… you were. So thank you. And I’m sorry.”

The atmosphere of the room is heavy with the quiet, the awful, _suffocating_ quiet, when Crow uses his free hand to sock Jonah on the arm. _Hard_.

“Hey!” Jonah yelps, leaping backward on the bed and narrowly missing cracking his head on the ceiling for a third time. “What was that for?”

“You were gettin’ too full of yourself,” Crow says simply. “‘Sides, you don’t need to apologize to us.”

“I… I don’t?”

Servo bobs in place in the approximation of a shrug. “Nah, it’s nothin’ we haven’t seen before.” There is distressingly little explanation. “You shoulda been there when—” At this, Crow slams a hand over Servo’s beak, shooting Joel a tight smile.

“Never mind him.” Crow rolls his eyes. “We’ll get outta your hair. All three synthetic feet of it.”

He’d like to believe so, but Jonah is _not_ above taking his wig off and pitching it full force at Crow’s face. So he does exactly that.

Crow goes down with a sound not incomparable to a wooden yardstick clattering against the floor, accompanied by Servo’s uproarious cackling. When Crow sits up again, Jonah can only imagine what gesture he’d be giving him if his hands weren’t one non-articulated piece of molybdenum.

“Jonah, everything we said about you? I take it back,” Crow grumbles, adjusting his lacrosse netting.

Fighting through his spasms, Servo manages to choke out, “Well, _I_ think I mean everything we said even more now!”

“You would.”

Jonah snorts. “Remember, Servo, do as I say, not as I do.”

“And what _do_ you say, oh fearless leader?”

“Don’t bully Crow with costume pieces.” There’s gotta be a loophole in there somewhere, from how excited Servo looks. “Or in general.”

“You’re a real spoilsport, Heston, you know that?”

Jonah waves him off. “Yeah, yeah. Just trying to maintain Joel’s gold standard of parenting.”

“Oh, please,” Crow drawls. “You’re barely the teenage babysitter.”

“I’m gonna take that as a compliment.”

“Don’t.”

“Oh.” Despite his tone, Jonah’s happy. Really happy.

Before the ‘bots can run away, he scoops them both into a hug. They kick and groan and struggle, of course, but Jonah’s got a tight hold on them and Crow’s little lamp stand legs don’t hurt _that_ much.

The ‘bots look downright murderous when he sets them down, but when they notice Jonah surreptitiously wiping a tear from his cheek, they sheepishly look away, Crow even going so far as to whistle and tap his foot in an attempt to be inconspicuous.

Jonah leans back on his bed. “Seriously, though, you guys are pretty cool.”

“Can the flattery, Heston,” Servo says. “It doesn’t suit you.”

“Rude.”

“Now that _dress_ , on the other hand…” Crow makes a show of looking Jonah up and down and suddenly Jonah wishes he had another wig.

“Oh, ew,” Jonah says (lovingly). “Didn’t Joel teach you that catcalling is bad?”

“Yeah, but then all the bad movies we watched kind of undermined that lesson.”

“I can see that.” Unfortunately.

“Hate to interrupt whatever this is,” Servo cuts in, clearly lying and _immensely_ relieved to be responsible for stopping Crow’s strange flirtations, “but we really do need to get going.”

“What, so soon? I think there’s a deck of cards in here somewhere…”

Servo cocks his whole body to the side, presumably trying to make up for the lack of an eyebrow to raise skeptically. “Jonah, it’s almost one a.m.”

He blinks. “It _is_?”

“Sheesh,” Crow tsks, “you’re hopeless.”

“Honestly,” Jonah says. “I’m a mess.”

“You’re _our_ mess. Our moronic, sasquatch-esque, clumsy, too-dorky-for-his-own-good mess.”

“Jeez, Crow,” Jonah deadpans, “that’s real kind of you.”

“I try.”

Servo’s apparently had just about enough of this.

“Would you two be quiet for a second? I’m trying to make a point here.” He shimmies slightly, spring arms trailing after him, and clears his throat. “Not to beat a dead horse or anything, whatever that means—”

“Wait, why use the expression if you don’t know what it means?”

“We heard Joel use it once, okay?” Crow snaps, attempting to put his hands on his hips, despite his immobile elbow joints. “Now let him finish.”

“Okay, okay!” Jonah holds his hands up in surrender. “Please, proceed.”

“We will!” Crow says indignantly.

“Great!”

“We _will_ do that!”

“Awesome!”

“We’ll do that now, in fact!”

Servo very inelegantly headbutts Crow in the beak. “Crow would you _please_ shut up?”

“ _Fine_.”

“Well, as I was going to say, and as my fine golden friend here was going to _agree_ with—”

“I’m not made of gold and you know it.”

“ _Shut up_.”

“Okay,” Crow grumbles. "Dickweed."

“ _Thank_ you.” Servo hovers up to eye level. “Now. Jonah, do you understand that you are not a burden on this ship?”

“Uh…” Jonah scratches at the back of his neck. “Yes?”

“Good. And do you understand that you matter to us?”

He’s starting to see where this is going. “Yes.”

“Finally, do you understand that we’ll never stop liking you just because you’re not Joel or Mike?”

“Um.”

“That had better be a yes, pal,” Crow interjects.

“Then yes! Yes, I do.” Jonah blinks back the tears stinging the backs of his eyes. Whether these are from the exhaustion or the emotions churning in his stomach, he doesn’t know. “Thanks, guys.”

“Nothin’ to it,” Servo says proudly. “Now get some rest, Heston, you get _whiny_ when you’re tired.”

“I do not!”

“You totally do.” Crow shakes his head in mock pity. “Such a tragedy.”

“Oh, piss off,” Jonah laughs. “And don’t break anything while I’m asleep.”

“No promises!” Servo and Crow chorus as the door slides shut behind them.

Jonah lets out an amused huff, eyes lingering on the etchings in the metal. It’s clear that some host, he can’t tell which one, finally caved to the classic prison trope and began to carve the days into the wall, small tallies in groups of five clumped in the bottom right corner of the door shimmering in the artificial light. As with every other touch of personality dotted throughout the ship, it provides a modicum of irrational comfort, artificial as it is. The imperfections say _You are not alone. We are here with you_.

A yawn escapes, unbidden, and with a start Jonah notices the digits on the digital clock inching past toward 0130 faster than he’d like. He reaches for the t-shirt and gym shorts tucked under his pillow—some of the few things that he’d been allowed to keep from the life he left behind—and clumsily throws them on, stifling several more yawns as he does so.

As much as it pains him to expend the effort it requires, Jonah actually does manage to brush his teeth and wash his face. While he’d often forgone basic self-care in his college days, the slightest bit of routine had come to be a lifesaver in the depths of space. It’s not like the calendar—or even the clock, it’s not like days and nights really _exist_ on the ship—means much anymore. Having time like this, spent just for him, how he wants to spend it… this is something Kinga can’t touch. Something she can’t take away from him.

Groaning, Jonah groggily traipses all two feet back to his bed, more zombie than human, carefully folding his glasses and setting them on the nightstand. He’s about to shut off the light when a thought occurs to him.

The ceiling above his cot is blank.

He’s been considering this earlier, before the ‘bots arrived, but didn’t quite have the mental faculties to put it together, scraps of ideas floating through his brain, any coherence lost by the staticy feeling in his brain of being tuned to a dead station. It had struck Jonah as _odd_ , but he didn’t know _why_. Now he does.

It’s the only space on the ship unoccupied by the memories of the previous hosts.

The ceiling is barren. No carvings, no sticky notes, no little messages written in sharpie, no silly doodles crowding every inch of the panel. Just smooth steel, buffed and polished to a perfect shine.

A wave of sudden, crazy, _overwhelming_ relief washes over him.

With the ever-present gaze of the Mads inhabiting every corner of the ship, this empty space is stone-cold _proof_ that Kinga is fallible. Her “perfect” experimental setup has a flaw. Tiny as it may be, Jonah feels a knot begin to loosen in his chest.

Because if she missed this, what else has she overlooked?

Jonah grins, the type of unrestrained, maniacal grin that hurts if you hold it for too long, but he doesn’t care. Frantically, he scrabbles for a pen.

Reaches up to the metal. Signs his name. It’s messy, but it’s _his_.

“Wouldja look at that,” Jonah whispers. He turns onto his side, an idea already forming in his mind. Next to him is a similar marking, Mike’s and Joel’s signatures stacked right on top of each other.

“Guess what, fellas,” he says, trying not to let himself get so hopeful so soon.

“We’re going home.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank y'all so much for reading! I know a lot of you are here for my work in a Very Different Fandom, and if you made it this far, I appreciate you! (For those of you just trawling the MST3K tag: I see you, and I love you.)
> 
> Follow me on [Tumblr](https://msdahliarose.tumblr.com/) (@msdahliarose) or [Twitter](https://twitter.com/jdahliarose) (@jdahliarose)!
> 
> Leave a comment if you want! I consume them for fuel and inspiration.
> 
> I hope you liked it! Stop by again sometime, won't you?


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